Syndrome
by Warfang
Summary: A function formed over time, either dysfunctional or beneficial.


I do not own Assassin's Creed. And some day, I will track down where these random thoughts came from. This is not strictly yaoi, but it does involve bromance. Between Altair and Malik. If you read into it like that.

Anyways, on with the story!

Malik sighed, scratching his feather over the parchment. The sun had long set, but it wasn't as though the bureau's top entrance let sunlight into the office itself. Still, the candle light caught the gold in Altair's eyes as he watched the Rafiq, the pretense of resting long given up.

Malik studiously ignored him.

He needed to finish this map, the details were necessary for Altair who had been rebuffed at every checkpoint so far. The target was disconcertingly well secured, but there hadn't been a fortress built yet without a way in.

Be it through the water supplies or adjacent towers. The annoying part was applying the towers shadow with time to find the approximate height of the towers so that Altair wouldn't fall to his death.

Cursing the mathematics that involved multiplication necessary of an abacus was irritating Malik. He had to scratch out what he could, put the feather down where it wouldn't drip ink, move the beads, account for the move, and write down the new number. Then he had to redo the math with the answer to see if he had successfully killed Altair or not.

At some point, the wish to do his best at his new rank, courtesy of Altair, turned into actually caring for the few assassins that needed his help.

That didn't mean they sat inside his office and watched him work well into the late night, of course.

Malik stiffened as a spasm shook his hand. He dropped the feather in father of bending over to study the abacus, hoping that Altair hadn't noticed.

He flexed his fingers. This was worse than the hours of training with the sword, where his hand would cramp and tingle for the hours until bed, and even then still. Instead, this was a pain, in his only remaining hand.

He had discreetly seen the doctors when it had started, worried about his joints. The third doctor he was told about was finally able to tell him what was wrong.

Overuse. He was forcing one hand to do what two hands were needed to accomplish, so the pain was merely from forcing the muscles past their threshold. He was ordered by the doctor to regularly stretch his hand and to stop working once the pain started.

When Malik asked for any medicine, the doctor had shaken his head.

Malik swallowed.

This spasm of pain was lasting rather long. If it continued, he would have to go to bed, unable to finish the map. Maybe even soak his hand in warm water and oil, force the muscles to relax.

A soft exhale by his face brought him out of his musings.

Altair was standing by the counter.

He reached out, touching Malik's arm, drawing the hand up and over to him, across the counter. Malik let him, weary of any cutting words he might unleash at Altair showing concern for him. Hah. If only he had not been arrogant, Kadar would be-

A pressure applied to his hand.

Had Altair found a new way to torture him? Then Altair ran his finger in a circle, applying pressure. His golden eyes were fixed on Malik's face, as he trapped the hand, digging into tan skin, smearing a few ink stains, and continually running circles.

Malik hissed.

"You're rubbing over my vein- " oh no. He would not admit to Altair how much having his veins tugged under the skin bothered him.

Altair shifted his hold, trapping Malik's hand by supporting it on his left hand, while his right hand applied pressure up past the wrist and back down.

Malik noticed something. Sure, it hurt, but after Altair's hand completed a circle and moved on, it hurt less.

And his hand was tingling something fierce. The odd sensation spread to his fingers, creating a buzz.

Malik jerked his hand back.

Altair became still without freezing up.

"Better, my brother?"

"It's fine. I can finish the map and calculations now."

"Of course."

Altair returned across the room, while Malik scratched out and counted the math. Finally satisfied, Malik set the parchment to dry.

"Good night, Altair."

Silence came across the room as Malik didn't stop on his way to bed. After disrobing enough that he wouldn't be chilled by the evening air, Malik blew out the candle. Settling down to sleep on his back, he wasn't certain if lips brushed his hand before he was completely gone or not.

Surely Altair wouldn't…..

* * *

><p>AN: That's it, the end. Originally Altair was going to end the little massage session by brushing his lips over Malik's hand and then slipping away, but Malik decided to jerk his hand back before that could happen.

Me: You are so mean.

Malik: Novice.

Me: Do you know what happened when Westley kept saying 'As you wish?'

Malik: I am not a dread pirate, I am an assassin.

Me: If that was an allusion to pirates versus ninjas, let's just say Leonardo has you beat. He's got a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle named after him.


End file.
